Bad Un-life Choices
by GillianDrake
Summary: On reflection, Australia might have been a mistake. On the one hand: there were more bare, juicy necks walking around than The Count could shake a fang at. On the other: the air was too hot, the sun shone too long and too much, he couldn't understand the accents, and the local wildlife had bigger fangs than he did. Which is why when Vlad summons him back to the UK, he goes!
**Bad Un-life Choices**

 **A/N: It's been a while since I've been back. Please be kind! X**

On reflection, Australia might have been a mistake. On the one hand, The Count conceded: there were more bare, juicy necks walking around than he could shake a fang at. But on the other: the air was too hot, the sun shone too long and too much, he couldn't understand the accents, and it seemed that all the local wildlife had bigger fangs than he did.

Not that he ever intended to admit this miscalculation to anyone, hence his postcards to everyone expressing a smug joy that he certainly wasn't feeling as he rushed Renfield onto the aeroplane and away from that infernal landmass.

They had stopped in New Zealand to visit his great-great-great-great-something-or-other Uncle Petyr, only to find that the idiots he'd been dwelling with in their suburban hovel had allowed him to be killed by a slayer. Eight thousand years of knowledge, experience and – later on – madness, gone to waste.

Still. The world moved on, and Count Dracula moved with it – or rather, he moved one step and called it a compromise.

"I miss home," he mused one night, while on his newly dubbed _Grand Tour_. St Petersburg was all very well, but it wasn't _home_.

Then again, after moving twice within one decade, it was hard for the vampire to work out where his home truly was. If anyone asked him, he'd say 'Transylvania' without a thought. But then he would feel a wrinkle of doubt creep over his face; he would remember Stokely Castle, his annoying suburban neighbours and their nauseating _favours;_ he would remember Garside Grange, the ridiculous bureaucracy that went into running that cursed school, and the enchanting Miss McCauley.

His heart did not beat. It hadn't for almost six hundred years and it never would again. But at the memory of her beautiful jewel-blue eyes, it twisted.

"I miss my bins," Renfield sighed.

The Count looked up at his newly immortal manservant and regretted ever biting the foul rodent-fancying creature. His only comfort was that he was sure that Renfield regretted it even more.

"Shut _up_!" he hissed at him, "Can't you see I'm busy?"

"Busy doing what?" Renfield frowned.

The Count rolled his eyes and gestured around them at his lavish suite of rooms – the best money could buy. "What does it look like?" he demanded.

Renfield stared gormlessly around at the velvet sofas, the gilded baroque-inspired furnishings and the heavy brocade drapes in much the same way as a puppet strung about by a small child, and shrugged.

"I'm _brooding_ , you imbecile!" cried The Count.

"Oh, right," Renfield nodded and went back to packing his master's suitcases.

The Count rubbed at his temples – an infernal habit he'd picked up in New Zealand after meeting his Uncle Petyr's 'housemates' and realising that emigrating to that corner of the world had been one of his worst ideas to date. It was either that or beating his head against any and every available hard surface.

"Master!" Renfield exclaimed, "The 'Mobile Phone' Master Vlad sent you is buzzing again."

The Count bit back a snarl and held out his hand, palm up.

Renfield handed him the infernal contraption and drew back.

He checked the 'Caller ID' before swiping across the screen the way Vlad had taught him, and pressing it to his ear.

"Who is this?" he snapped. The numbers of everybody he wanted to speak to had been put into this 'Mobile Phone' and the fact that the caller's name hadn't come up suggested someone unwelcome.

" _Vladislaus,_ " a female voice chuckled reprovingly in his ear, "do you answer the phone like that to everybody, or am I just special?"

"How did _you_ get this phone number?" he snarled.

"Your son, our esteemed Grand High Vampire gave it to me. Told me that he was surprised I didn't already have it."

The Count wrinkled his nose at that and studied his finely manicured nails as if she could see his performance of indolence first-hand which, knowing her, she probably could. "Ludmilla, if I thought speaking to you was worth my time, I would have given you my phone number, myself," he said.

"Don't tell me you're still angry that I rejected your marriage proposal. That was over twenty years ago," Ludmilla scoffed.

"A man has his pride, Ludmilla."

"Oh _please_ ," she cackled, "your pride has always been a superficial thing. You're more annoyed that I didn't want in on your plan to make Magda jealous –"

"I was laughed at by each and every one of our friends and acquaintances –" he complained, letting his act drop.

"For proposing to me in the first place, you idiot! Everyone knew I wasn't inclined toward men – you included, and yet you still thought it a good plan," she reminded him.

" _Whatever_ ," said The Count.

"Oh dear. You really _haven't_ changed have you?"

He could practically _hear_ her fond, condescending smile through the speaker and growled.

"Shut up. Are you finished running away from your bad un-life choices?" she demanded insolently.

"I wasn't running away," he said defensively. "I do mean to head back to Transylvania tomorrow, however."

"Don't bother. His Grace is currently in the North West of England dealing with a situation that has arisen and wants to see you."

"Well then why didn't he call me himself?"

"He dropped his phone and had to send it in for repairs."

The Count snorted. "So much for 'better communication'."

"Indeed. Now cease your mid-un-life crisis and wing your leathery way back over here at once. That is an official order."

The Count, having finally realised during the last week that baring ones fangs over the phone line was a futile effort, huffed. "I'll have to inform my son that his chief bodyguard is over-reaching in her position."

"I wouldn't bother. Strictly speaking, I'm retired as of last month. And anyway, I'm one of the few he trusts enough to deal with the situation that's developing."

The Count sniffed at that. "What situation would that be?"

"Come on, Lousy, I'm not about to put that kind of information down a _phone_ line! You'll have to get over here and find out for yourself," said Lumilla. And then she hung up without so much as a by-your-leave.

Count Dracula glared at the infernal device in his hands, tempted – not for the first time – to crush it into dust. There were a number of names he'd come up with for that woman over the years, but not one of them suited better than "That _bitch_."


End file.
